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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28867659">Stars May Collide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavhonlim/pseuds/lavhonlim'>lavhonlim</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, as in fluff fluff fluff BIG ANGST, background andy/quynh, it's a Moulin Rouge au!, joe is a lovestruck poet, nicky is a dancer/courtesan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:16:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,999</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28867659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavhonlim/pseuds/lavhonlim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sorry,” Nicky interjects. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Who is ‘we’?”</p><p>“The troupe.” That only seems to confuse Nicky further. “The theater troupe, the one that sent me to present our–”</p><p>There is a knock at the door, loud and jarring. Nicky is searching his face, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth.</p><p>“You are not the duke,” he states, matter of fact. Yusuf shakes his head.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>What's this? Another fic I feel really passionate about now but am nervous to post and therefore commit to? You betcha ;) </p><p>Some chapters are done, so I'll try to keep a semi-regular schedule of editing and posting. I tagged for major character death (not really a spoiler if you know the plot of moulin rouge) but if it gets Too Sad To Handle I might make some changes. And I rated mature, but we might move up to explicit later hehehe</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This story is about love.</p><p> </p><p>The man I love is dead.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf’s mother had always told him he was too romantic for his own good. <em> One day, your heart will swell so large it breaks into a million pieces</em>, she’d tell him. <em> You must guard it more carefully</em>.</p><p>But, God help him, Yusuf never quite learned his lesson. As a small child he dreamed of a sweeping romance, of a technicolor world filled with delight and folly. He jumped in puddles to feel the joyful splash of water against his shins. He ran his fingertips along the brick walls of the school building, reveling in their texture, each crack a fissure in the divide between his world and some magical realm. His imagination ran beyond what any teacher could hope to control.</p><p>And what’s more: he wrote. He wrote endlessly, bouncing ballads in the summer, solemn prose in the winter. Yusuf al-Kaysani lived his life in poetry.</p><p>It was only fitting that now, in his adulthood, he should move to Paris. It’s a city built by and for the romantic. If ever there was a time to leave his heart unguarded, surely it was to be here, in the beating heart of the Bohemian Revolution.</p><p>But the reality of a Parisian autumn is enough to sober even Yusuf’s romanticism. He arrives at Gare d’Orsay with little more than his trunk, a notebook tucked inside his coat, and a crumpled note with a fading address. The walk to his apartment building didn’t seem so far on the map, but now that he’s here, being chilled by the late November rain, it feels rather arduous.</p><p>By the time he arrives at the apartment building, his hands are shaking so violently that it takes a few attempts to pull the note out of his pocket. He tries not to smudge the ink as he reads it and then glances up at the brass numbers on the building. This is the right place, after all.</p><p>“Hey!” A voice calls from behind, and Yusuf whips around to find a man staring at him and frowning. “You planning on going inside any time soon, or should I walk around in this rain a little longer and check back later?” The man is only slightly shorter than him, with a well muscled but un-intimidating build. His hat has a hole in the brim.</p><p>“Pardon me, friend.” Yusuf laughs and offers a hand to the stranger, who takes it after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m a newcomer here. I suppose I was savoring the moment of peace just before… crossing the threshold into newfound freedom.”</p><p>The man eyes him with a look Yusuf cannot place. “You’re a writer.” It’s not a question.</p><p>Yusuf pauses, then says carefully, “I’d like to be.”</p><p>“Good. Come with me.” The man steps ahead of him and pulls a key from the pocket of his tattered coat. He holds the heavy wooden door open for Yusuf to step through, and then leads him up the stairs. “It’s lucky you were just standing there. We need a writer with feeling, and you’ve got that fresh doe-eyed look to you.”</p><p>Yusuf struggles to keep up with the man’s pace, lugging his trunk along as they cross the landing to the next flight of stairs. “Sorry, who is ‘we’? And what do you need a writer for? I haven’t written anything of note, I don’t want to disappoint–”</p><p>“Here.” The man stops in front of a weathered looking door and knocks three times. It opens almost immediately.</p><p>Yusuf, still trying to catch his breath, takes a moment to see what lies inside. Once he does, though, he can hardly force himself to blink. </p><p>The door swings open to reveal a large windowed room, across which all manner of streamers and colored paper have been strewn. There are glass bottles hung in the sunlight, reflecting small rainbows against the walls. And in the center of the room is… well. Yusuf can’t be sure exactly what it is. A paper mache mountain, perhaps? It looks delicate, but finely made.</p><p>“This is–”, he begins, but a voice from inside cuts him off.</p><p>“Book! Is that you?” A woman emerges from around a corner. Her hair is cropped short and she wears trousers, but she moves with the grace of a queen. There is no mistaking the bemused suspicion in her eyes the moment she spots him– it is the same look his mother would get when Yusuf proposed a grand scheme. “I see you brought a friend.”</p><p>“Business, not pleasure, Andy,” says the man as he steps into the room. Yusuf waits for a terse nod from the woman before following.</p><p>Her gaze is somewhat disconcerting. She crosses her arms, leaning back against the wall, and appraises him with a kind of confident precision.</p><p>The man slips off his coat and sets it on the back of a ghastly orange velvet chair. “I found him outside. He writes.”</p><p>They both look to him, and Yusuf feels startled by his own impulse to prove himself. They haven’t even asked for his name. “Hello.” He tries to smile, though it slides awkwardly over his face. “I’m Yusuf. I just moved here to, um. To become a writer.”</p><p>“A writer?” A new voice breaks the silence, tone much lighter and excitable. The short haired woman lifts her arms, making space as another woman with longer hair and tanner skin bounds into the room and slots herself beside her. “How marvelous! You’re here to join the troupe?”</p><p>Yusuf hopes his confusion cannot be so easily read, but that hope is dashed when the new woman frowns and rolls her eyes.</p><p>“Andromache and Sébastien are notoriously terrible hosts.” She untangles herself from the taller woman and approaches Yusuf with an outstretched hand. “I’m Quynh.” She gestures to the woman and man behind her. “That is my wife, Andy, and our friend Booker. We run a theater troupe, though we’re in need of a writer. I’m afraid none of us have the skill,” she throws a sharp glance back toward the others, “or <em> emotional range </em> for writing.”</p><p>Yusuf tries to mask his surprise, letting Quynh guide him to sit. Certainly this was not what he’d expected from his first day in the city. In fact, arriving at the train station this morning feels now like a distant memory. She pulls a chair opposite him and sits as well, the others drawing nearer. Booker rests against the mantle, facing him, and pulls a flask from his coat. Andy grips the back of Quynh’s chair and brushes a thumb along her shoulder.</p><p>“I have little experience in theater.” Yusuf admits with a bashful laugh. “That is to say, none, really. I’ve tried my hand at a few monologues, but just for myself. Never for an actual stage. I fear you will find my skills inadequate.”</p><p>Quynh leans forward and takes his hands in hers. Her touch is pleasantly cool. “Yusuf, yes?” He nods, and she continues. “Yusuf, why did you move to Paris?”</p><p>“I was fascinated by the inspirational potential, and the atmosphere of–”</p><p>“Yusuf.” She speaks gently, but with a clear tone. The others look fond, as though they’ve endured this patient authority themselves. “We three live by a motto. It’s very simple: Truth, beauty, freedom, and love.”</p><p>Something in Yusuf’s chest pulls tight. The setting sun casts a warmth across the room which reminds him of his mother’s <em>chorba</em>, of returning from work to a crackling fireplace and settling into their coziest chair.</p><p>“We speak truthfully, to ourselves and each other,” Booker says with a small smile.</p><p>“We search for beauty in even the smallest things.” Andy pokes playfully at Quynh’s cheek, who beams at her in return.</p><p>“We are free to live as we choose,” says Quynh, as she lifts the hand on her shoulder to place a kiss against Andy’s knuckles.</p><p>“And to love who you love.” Yusuf finishes. “To love bravely, foolishly, without regard for the darkness or the pain which might follow. It is enough to love, and greater, still, to be loved in return.”</p><p>They all grin at him, even Andy, who had only eyed him warily until this moment. Golden fractals split from the bottles in the window, painting the room in a holy glow, and the tightness has a name. This is home.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They spend a season planning, singing, drinking, singing more loudly and much worse, writing, rehearsing, dancing, laughing, and eventually putting it all together. By the end the story has been much transformed by Yusuf’s dreamy ideals, but, to his credit, that is what they brought him in to do.</p><p>“Booker, mon frère, a <em> goat </em> could instill more emotion!” Yusuf throws his hands in the air, and Andy near cackles with glee.</p><p>“There’s a billy goat in that one song, perhaps we should consider recasting?” She flicks Booker’s forehead as he passes, grumbling that he’s taking a break. Quynh takes this as her cue to flop dramatically to the ground. She has long been bemoaning the restrictive waist of her costume, so Yusuf pays her no mind, instead flipping through the pages of script that are strewn across his desk.</p><p>Andy, after nudging a now “on strike” Quynh with the toe of her boot (“really Andromache, it’s a form of torture– surely I have rights?”), comes to join him.</p><p>“You’re worried,” she says without pretense. Her bluntness is both a virtue and a weapon.</p><p>“Of course I am.” Yusuf’s words tumble out prickly, more harsh than he’d intended. “We meet Copley tonight, and the show is hardly halfway finished. We’ve been working all winter.” He meets her eyes. The look she gives him is startlingly sympathetic. “I don’t want to let you all down.”</p><p>Andy nods, purses her lips, and says nothing for a long moment. When Yusuf is beginning to suspect her moment of sympathy has passed, she murmurs, “You can’t let us down, Yusuf. Surely you must know that by now. You’re family.”</p><p>She doesn’t linger, but instead turns on her heel and approaches the set. As she kicks at Quynh to revive her and calls out to Booker that they’re starting again, Yusuf finds his vision is foggy. He swipes at his eyes with his sleeve and thumbs through the pages once more.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>They meet Copley at his club, the Moulin Rouge. Yusuf had suspected this was some sort of business club, where gentlemen would sip whiskey and discuss serious matters. </p><p>It could not be further from his expectations.</p><p>A theater marquee announces nightly shows in flashing lights. Above it a mill painted glossy red towers, the blades spinning in the night breeze. Behind the theater, Yusuf can make out the shadow of a large building seemingly shaped like an elephant. At the top sits a windowed room designed to imitate a houdah. He cannot imagine its use, but it’s beautiful.</p><p>The interior is lavish, rich fabrics draped from the walls and ceiling. A circular set of cushioned seating lines a large stage, which glows fantastically with candles and colored filters. But most surprising are the dancers. Mostly young women, but also a few men, outfitted in the most spectacular costumes Yusuf has ever seen. They’re snug in the bodice, and while the ladies’ skirts flare out in rippling shades of fuchsia and citrine, the men wear tight, high waisted trousers that put their… assets… on full display. They twirl to the music, women flashing their skirts up to reveal bright garter belts and stockings, men bending suggestively and then springing into new steps. It’s dizzying, overwhelming, and closer to the Bohemian dream than Yusuf has ever felt.</p><p>“You look ready to pass out,” Booker shouts over the music. Yusuf can only nod in agreement. “Here, have a drink.”</p><p>Typically, Yusuf tries not to partake as frequently as Booker, but now he feels choked with nerves. Booker passes him a flask and he gratefully accepts, taking a long swig.</p><p>Quynh and Andy approach from the roaring crowd, both sporting wolfish grins. They belong here, he realizes, among this chaos and free from inhibition. Andy takes his arm and points to a man across the stage, who’s wearing a well-fitted suit and shaking hands with a group of men. “That’s Copley,” she speaks into his ear. “He’s too busy making deals with investors tonight, so instead you’ll present to the star of the show.”</p><p>Yusuf turns to her with wide eyes. “The star? Andy, I don’t know if I-”</p><p>“You’ll be fine! Just go to his rooms after the performance and explain our idea. Simple as that!”</p><p>“But-”</p><p>“Yusuf, I told you-”</p><p>“-will he be expecting me? How will I even know who-”</p><p>“Look!” Quynh interrupts them both, pointing to the center of the room. The lighting has been lowered and the filters switched, leaving only a dim blue glow. All the dancers have cleared the stage, and some are now seated comfortably on the laps of audience members. Yusuf is preparing to resume his argument with Andy, to explain that this really isn’t what they planned for, and perhaps they should just return a different night, when the words die on his tongue.</p><p>There, gliding downward from the ceiling, is a man unlike any other.</p><p>He suddenly understands exactly what his mother had meant, all those years ago. In that single moment, he feels his heart shatter and mend itself back together at least a hundred times.</p><p>The man is seated on a bench, poised in one elegant line from the arch of his foot straight up to the fingers he has curled delicately above his head. He wears nothing but a gleaming silver corset with tasseled fringe at the bottom. It barely reaches his mid thigh. Silver glitter rains down around him as he descends, still and perfect. Yusuf’s fingers twitch, an aborted reach for his notebook, a pencil, anything to capture this beauty.</p><p>Andy pulls him back into reality with a hand at his shoulder. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “That’s him,” she whispers, the audience hushed with anticipation. “The sparkling diamond.”</p><p>The man blinks slowly, catlike, though his gaze is piercingly focused. Then he opens his mouth, and Yusuf swears his knees go weak.</p><p>His voice is silky smooth with just the right undercurrent of husky as he sings a lulling tune. The ropes attached to his bench twirl, spinning him in a lazy circle. He is iridescent, ethereal. An angel. Eternal.</p><p>The music picks up into a sudden jazzy swing, the man leaps off the bench, and Yusuf feels any blood remaining in his brain rush promptly out. The dancer’s sharp gaze is giddy and knowing, as though he feeds on the hunger in everyone’s eyes. And it is <em> everyone </em>. All eyes are on him, hands reaching out toward him as he dances through the crowd, laughing through his lyrics when anyone gets particularly cheeky.</p><p>He accepts offerings with ease, plucking diamond bracelets and fans of money from their outstretched hands. They’re begging for even a glance, and, merciful creature that he is, he grants their wishes. The men with larger gifts even earn a lingering stroke to their chest or a ruffle of the scanty silver fringe covering his rear. Yusuf doesn’t believe in buying love, but he wishes he had anything of enough value to make the angel look his way.</p><p>The song’s tempo picks up again and the man dances on, twirling impossibly fast. At last, he strikes a finishing pose and the room erupts into cheers. </p><p>Yusuf blinks, perhaps for the first time since the man’s performance began, and looks back to his friends. They are all wearing the same too-bright smile.</p><p>“You’d better hurry,” Andy says, brows raised. “You don’t want to miss him.”</p><p>He opens his mouth to object, and can think of infinite reasons to do so. Let alone the fact that this man is so terribly far above him it’s difficult even to quantify, or that he doubts a man of such evident power would be interested in their ragtag little play, there is also the undeniable fact that being alone with the <em> star courtesan </em> of the Moulin Rouge certainly breaks the boundaries of what can be considered appropriate. Even in Paris.</p><p>But the words will not come. He is at an utter loss, and when the team directs him to the dancer’s private room and waves him off with enthusiasm, he goes. It is as if he has no say in the movements of his body at all, and perhaps he doesn’t. He follows their instructions out the back and up a narrow set of stairs along the side of the large elephant structure, reaching an ornate door at the top. It feels less like a conscious decision, and more like fate.</p><p><em> Yes</em>, he thinks as he swallows his nerves and lifts a hand to rap on the door. <em> Fate. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bit of a short chapter, sorry! It was too long not to split. But the next chapter should be up soon and our star-crossed lovers will finally meet :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The door swings open, and Yusuf notices two things. The first is that the man’s sea-green eyes are even brighter up close. The second is that he has changed into a new outfit, somehow even more alluring than the last. Sheer black fabric flows from where it’s pooled in the crease of his elbow, giving him a demure look, like his robe has fallen naturally from one shoulder. Beneath it is a matching corset of black lace. Yusuf has the good sense not to look lower than that, though he can guess what he might find if he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clears his throat and meets the man’s gaze. It is no hardship- even dressed as he is, the man’s eyes are most captivating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, I’m-” he begins, but the man reaches out with sudden intensity and grips his arm, pulling him inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” he purrs. His words are accented, ‘r’s rolling and vowels pleasantly round. “I’m so glad you found me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf isn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps, as a fellow performer, the courtesan is a greater fan of theater than he imagined?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is good to hear,” he says. The man draws him further into the room, looking something like a predator on the prowl even as he steps backward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is more spacious inside than Yusuf would have guessed. It’s decorated with varied styles, though there seems to be a consistent theme of decadence and detail. Like the inside of the club, the walls are draped with crimson fabrics and candles around the room shimmer in their gold leaf lanterns. But Yusuf also notes a stack of papers and a fountain pen on one desk that’s been pushed into the corner. Tacked above it are a few postcards showing scenes of a very blue sea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf hesitates when they reach a high, luxurious bed and the man spills himself down onto it. He blinks up at Yusuf with the barest hint of a smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Yusuf rationalizes, he’s had a long night, and that dancing certainly looked… strenuous. Surely the man wants to relax while hearing his presentation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before I begin, I must ask what you prefer to be called,” he says in a rush. He should have asked Andy, in retrospect, but there’s nothing that can be done for it now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I usually go by Nicky.” From the bed, he flashes Yusuf an amused look, then resettles into something more smoldering. “But you can call me whatever you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That throws Yusuf. Does Nicky intend to be cast in the production? He is the star, after all, and they should have considered… yes, of course Nicky would assume he’d be cast, and how modest of him- </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever you like</span>
  </em>
  <span>- as if he could play anything except the leading role.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky’s smooth voice interrupts his thoughts. “Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes! I’m fine,” Yusuf falters, finding Nicky has rolled onto his stomach and has his chin cradled in one palm. His eyes are wide with concern. “Yes, it’s just, I suppose I’m a bit nervous. I’ve actually never-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky gasps and leaps up to stand beside Yusuf. “Oh! I see, now.” He takes Yusuf’s hands in his own, strokes them gently with the edge of his thumb. “You have nothing to worry about. We’ll take it slow, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses, waits for Yusuf to stutter a choked, “yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s really very simple. Natural. All you have to do is tell me what you want.” His voice is soft and patient, even kind, as he pulls Yusuf back toward the bed. Yusuf lets himself be guided to sit, Nicky kneeling beside him and curled into his space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I thought we might begin with…” He trails off when Nicky leans closer, one painted fingernail drawing patterns along the inside of his thigh. Yusuf swallows, then starts again, “with poetry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky’s hand stills only for a split second. “Poetry?” He chuckles, though Yusuf doesn’t feel it’s at his expense. “That’s rather unconventional.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf glances at him, cheeks hot. “I thought it might help set the tone, though of course if you’d prefer to get straight to it-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no.” Nicky strokes soothingly up the small of his back. “I think that’s a brilliant idea. Speak poetry to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf nods, inhales once to calm his racing heart- when did it start pounding so loudly?- and speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire.” He cannot bring himself to meet Nicky’s eyes, though he feels his heavy gaze upon him. He looks down at his own hands, folded in his lap. “I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky draws a tiny breath in, almost a gasp. Yusuf continues, “I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand on his thigh tightens, no longer just a gentle fingertip. His palm is warm against Yusuf’s pant leg. “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride.” At last, he forces himself to raise his eyes. Nicky has a strange look to his face, brow furrowed a bit and cheeks flushed. It is almost vulnerable, Yusuf thinks, unlike any other expression he’d made that night. As though he’s another person entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine.” He dares not move. They are both frozen, the last words slipping out like silk over his tongue. “So close that your eyes close with my dreams.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They linger there, so near and yet undeniably apart, until Nicky turns his head. “That was very beautiful.” He speaks to the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t write it.” Yusuf’s neck feels unbearably hot. Nicky turns back to face him, and it’s nothing in particular, not his quiet smile, the endearing mole just below his lips, the clever quirk to his brow- it’s no one thing, but suddenly Yusuf realizes that if he never looked anywhere but into Nicky’s eyes, he’d die a happy man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to hear something you have written, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf’s stomach drops. Of course, the play. He’s been wasting Nicky’s time. “Absolutely. You must forgive me, I am told I let my mind wander too frequently. We’ve been working hard, though, and I think you’ll be pleased. It’s a love story. The setting is-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Nicky interjects. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Who is ‘we’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The troupe.” That only seems to confuse Nicky further. “The theater troupe, the one that sent me to present our-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a knock at the door, loud and jarring. Nicky is searching his face, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not the duke,” he states, matter of fact. Yusuf shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A muffled voice calls for him from behind the door, and Nicky yells out, “just a moment!” He stands hurriedly and pulls his robe up, swearing. “Who are you, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Yusuf. The, um. The writer.” The statement feels dizzyingly inadequate. Nicky pays him no mind, dashing to a vanity and inspecting himself. He pats his cheek with a brush of rouge and dabs his lips with a glossy tincture, then finally glances over his shoulder at Yusuf. He seems almost surprised to find him still sitting there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what are you doing here? If Copley finds you in here, we’ll both be-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice calls out again, tone much less patient this time. “You don’t want to keep the duke waiting!” It cries, and Nicky swears again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf looks around frantically, but there is no exit except the door he entered through, which seems to be taking a thorough battering. Nicky must realize this as well, because he rushes back over and smooths Yusuf’s curls down. When had they gotten rumpled? He can’t remember running his hands through them, but then again, he’s having a hard time forming any thoughts with Nicky’s face so close to his own. He smells like high end perfume and, this near, just a hint of sweat. It’s lovely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Follow my lead,” Nicky whispers, and then darts across the room and pulls the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James!” His voice is sugary sweet. Yusuf finds it strangely distasteful. “Thank you for your patience, and for escorting our handsome guest. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From his position on the bed, Yusuf can only see Nicky’s back and the brim of a top hat reaching over his head. The hat inclines, and Nicky extends an arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is a great pleasure to meet you, monsieur,” says a third voice. “I have heard much about your talents, and I am eager to partake myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You flatter me, sir,” Nicky says easily. The top hat twists, and then Yusuf can make out a sliver of the man’s face in the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I fear I have interrupted.” The words are diplomatic, but his tone is forceful. “Who might this stranger be?” The man pushes past Nicky and approaches Yusuf. Trusting Nicky, Yusuf only stands to show his respect, but makes no attempt to introduce himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one who need cause you worry, I assure you.” Nicky hurries to the man’s side. “This is Yusuf. He is producing a play for next season, and we were just rehearsing lines. Isn’t that right, James?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, Copley blanches and stumbles through an agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” says the man, though his brow is quirked and he is still scowling. Nicky links their arms smoothly and places a hand on the man’s chest. Something about the movement makes Yusuf’s chest ache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yusuf, allow me to introduce Stephen Merrick, Duke of Montpensier.” His voice is still too syrupy. “He is among our most generous donors-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>your most generous donor,” Merrick corrects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just so,” Nicky agrees quickly, “and as such we will be treating him to a very special evening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf’s eyes flicker to Copley, who looks just as lost as he feels. Still, he says nothing to contradict or interrupt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky’s hand is still on Merrick’s chest, working its way slowly beneath his overcoat. “We thought we’d start with an explanation of our latest production, which is why I asked Yusuf to be here. And then, if you’re amenable, of course, I hoped we might discuss matters more privately?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merrick’s expression is softening by the minute, though Yusuf still finds he gives off the overall sense of having just smelled something nasty. How miserable, he thinks, to live always in a state of displeasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not come here for discussions, private or otherwise.” Merrick places a possessive hand on Nicky’s waist and squeezes. “But I suppose I can listen to a quick pitch while I have a drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky beams, already moving toward a tray with crystal glasses and tall bottles of amber liquor. He pours Merrick a glass and pushes it into his hands, guiding him to sit against the cushions where Yusuf had been only minutes ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most generous, indeed.” He praises, letting a hand trail over Merrick’s knee as he pulls away. “I am quite certain you will be rewarded.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf can hardly stand to watch the way Merrick curls his lip hungrily. Standing straight, Nicky clears his throat and nudges Yusuf’s ankle with his toe- kicks, really, probably enough to bruise, and the thought that Nicky has a hidden strength is making Yusuf’s mouth go dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Won’t you tell him about the play, then, Yusuf?” He prompts. His smile is tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, it’s a love story,” says Yusuf uncertainly. Merrick yawns, settles back into the pillows, and Nicky grants him another sharp kick. “But there is also action! And heartbreak, and… pain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy is going to kill him for this. She has bragged, often and in detail, about her extensive knowledge of physical combat. And even if Yusuf were inclined to mistrust her, which he is absolutely not, he was witness to an unfortunate incident involving Booker and a piece of baklava. Altering the plot of the musical extravaganza that they have spent months laboring over... She is going to murder Yusuf without so much as a second thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the look in Merrick’s eyes, the sudden quirk to his brow, tells Yusuf that he’s on the right track. He allows himself to uncork his imagination and the words begin to flow nearly unbidden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In a distant land of deserts and dreams, we open with two lovers who bear a terrible, beautiful secret: they cannot die.” The tale spins itself as Yusuf paints scenes of vast ivory cities and raggedy bandit rings. Every murmur of approval from Merrick, and every tentative smile he draws from Nicky, emboldens him to make the story more grand, more fantastical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s emoting as he speaks, hands sweeping as if to form the characters from thin air. “But though the evil doctor thinks he’s won, the young warrior returns to rescue them in the nick of time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes!” Nicky agrees. “There’s a dramatic battle for freedom, explosions and gunfire and all manner of spectacle.” Yusuf privately admires this clever addition. Merrick’s eyes widen most when he mentions anything violent or loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grander than you can possibly imagine,” Yusuf continues. “And to conclude, of course, the lovers are reunited, returned to blissful harmony.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands fall to his sides, and the room is still. Copley, still standing behind them, holds himself with stiff posture. Nicky’s chest doesn’t move at all, and Yusuf wonders if he’s holding his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, Merrick laughs. They join him immediately, Yusuf’s laughter threaded with a good deal of nervous relief, and only fall silent when he opens his mouth to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well,” he says. “You’ve got my attention. I’ll agree to finance this little venture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yusuf sneaks a sideways glance at Nicky, who happens to be doing the same. Their eyes meet, and the joy written across Nicky’s face sparks a warmth in Yusuf that spreads from his chest to his fingertips and toes. He wants Nicky to look like that always, wants Nicky to look at </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But on one condition,” Merrick continues. The light in Nicky’s eyes is snuffed as he faces the duke once more, and Yusuf’s world feels dimmer for it. Merrick levels him with a greedy leer. “I will be the only man allowed to court Nicky.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I finally outlined, so the chapter count was updated. And of course the poem Yusuf recites is Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda, and I hope you'll forgive my play within a play tog reference</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I have yet to see how this is a problem.” Booker is reclining in the orange velour chair, his arms lifted behind his head like he’s lounging at the beach. He’s wearing a breezy smile that makes Yusuf grind his teeth. “The man is funding our entire play. And, frankly, your improvised rewrites are very good. This will be a grand debut, and you’re pouting because he wants to pay for company on the side?”</p>
<p>“It’s not just company,” Yusuf counters. “It’s possessive, arrogant, and immoral. You can’t just… just <em> own a person</em>!” He’s wearing a hole in the rug, pacing as he has for over an hour, but can’t bring himself to feel concerned. Perhaps they’ll just sell Booker to pay for a new one, since everyone is apparently comfortable with that.</p>
<p>“Mon ami, you can if the person is for sale.” Booker’s tone is gentle, but Yusuf whirls around to face him with fresh fury. He raises his hands defensively and speaks before Yusuf can lay into him. “Forgive me, <em> désolé</em>, that came out wrong. I’m only saying… this courtesan–”</p>
<p>“Nicky.”</p>
<p>“–<em>Nicky </em> is his own man. He has decided this price is acceptable to him. It is not for us to intervene, so again, I must ask– what is the problem?”</p>
<p>“It’s– you wouldn’t–” It’s stupid. It’s very stupid, and foolish, and all the other things Yusuf has been accused of so frequently. He knows Booker will not understand, yet he feels the words bubbling inside him, can think of no way to keep them from spilling out. “I love him.”</p>
<p>Booker’s mouth opens like a fish, but he says nothing. </p>
<p>“I love him,” Yusuf repeats, softer, slower. He sinks into the chair opposite Booker.</p>
<p>“Mon frère…" Booker begins.</p>
<p>“Don’t look at me like that.”</p>
<p>“You cannot love him. You don’t even know him.”</p>
<p>“You weren’t there.” It’s a childish phrase, petulant even to Yusuf’s own ears. “It was love at first sight.”</p>
<p>Booker makes a halted motion, like he’s going to roll his eyes, but halfway through just tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. He takes a long breath in through his nose. “There’s no such–”</p>
<p>“People who don’t believe in love at first sight simply aren’t looking hard enough,” Yusuf snaps. “It’s not just lust, Book. It’s his eyes, his smile, his light. When I see him, it’s like staring at the sun. He glows. He makes me glow. I love him.”</p>
<p>Booker studies him for a long moment. His mouth is still pinched in a frown, but eventually he sighs and nods. “Okay, okay, I see.”</p>
<p>Yusuf drops his head into his hands, and he’s surprised when, instead of nudging a flask into his hands, Booker leans on the arm of Yusuf’s chair and strokes a sympathetic hand over his shoulders.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>James Copley is a man of surprising organizational skills. Yusuf discovers this when he is invited to join him for a “casual business consultation”, which he correctly suspected would be more shake-down than friendly meeting.</p>
<p>Copley greets him at the entrance to the Moulin Rouge. In the daylight, Yusuf can see hairline cracks in the plastered walls, and a thin layer of dust covers nearly every surface.</p>
<p>They do not head up the narrow flight of stairs which have been plaguing Yusuf’s memory since his last visit, but instead Copley leads him behind the stage. Other than a handful of dancers stretching and sharing cigarettes and chatting, the space is mostly empty. He wonders absently what the dancers do with their days, if their time is their own. </p>
<p>Copley shows him into a moderately sized office and gestures for him to sit in one of the leather chairs facing the desk. There are one or two blurry photographs on the walls, and a few yellowing documents piled at one edge of the large oak desk, but Yusuf is impressed by how tidy everything is. He was expecting something… messier. Less in control. The club itself seems like a testament to disorder.</p>
<p>“I’ll try to keep this brief, Monsieur al-Kaysani, as I’m sure you’re hard at work on our production,” Copley begins, “but I wanted to clarify a few things with you.”</p>
<p>He rests his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers. The movement draws Yusuf’s attention to a drawing of a young woman that’s framed and hung beside him. She shares Copley’s dark complexion, and has wide, doe-like eyes.</p>
<p>“The duke has asked that we begin rehearsals with speed. Are you and your colleagues prepared to submit a drafted script by the weekend? We’ll have to get them printed, of course, which could take some time…”</p>
<p>“Of course!” Yusuf prefers to adhere to the ‘truth’ component of their motto when he’s able, but needs must. “The troupe is adding final revisions as we speak.” They haven’t even begun to craft the new script.</p>
<p>Copley’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push any further. “Very well. That brings me to my second point. What, exactly, were you doing in my dancer’s room last night?”</p>
<p>Yusuf swallows, though his mouth is dry. He knows it was a simple misunderstanding, but Copley’s glower could make even Quyhn shift with discomfort. “I’m afraid I– well, it started when,” a nervous chuckle bubbles up, “you see–”</p>
<p>He jolts as the door behind him crashes open and a very familiar, though sharp, voice interrupts: “Did that shipment of stockings come in yet, or am I supposed to expect that Marie can stitch a hole the size of France?”</p>
<p>Yusuf’s heart flutters, warmth already buzzing through him even before he turns and meets Nicky’s sea-green gaze.</p>
<p>“Oh.” Nicky pauses, anger apparently forgotten, one hand still gripping the doorframe. “You.”</p>
<p>Yusuf grins and opens his mouth to respond, but Copley beats him to it.</p>
<p>“They’re somewhere in the wings. Ask Jean to help you find them.” His voice leaves little room for further questioning. Nicky looks up at him and nods, gaze flickering back to Yusuf before he’s even finished the motion.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says to Copley, though his eyes don’t leave Yusuf’s.</p>
<p>A beat. Then Copley ducks his head, as if to catch Nicky’s attention. It’s a failed effort. “Is that all?” He asks.</p>
<p>“Yes.” Nicky’s tone is hushed, like the gentlest break of a wave against sand. Yusuf wants to let it wash over him, sweep him away. Distantly, he thinks he’d let it drown him.</p>
<p>At last Nicky tears his gaze away and nods once more at Copley before shutting the door. His footsteps echo down the hall, each softer than the last.</p>
<p>Copley clears his throat, and Yusuf turns to find he is no longer glowering. It’s nearer now to a grimace.</p>
<p>“That is exactly what I wanted most to speak with you about, monsieur.” His tone reminds Yusuf of the disapproving schoolmasters of his youth. “You are not, under any circumstances, to so much as approach Nicky without his express consent.”</p>
<p>Yusuf shakes his head– he would never–</p>
<p>“In addition,” Copley speaks over whatever words were forming in his throat, “you are well aware of the duke’s demands. Nicky is no longer available. Your relationship to him is professional. For all intents and purposes, you are to consider him a taken man.”</p>
<p>Yusuf doesn’t trust his voice not to crack, so he just nods.</p>
<p>“I see the way you look at him.” Copley’s voice is the scarcest bit softer. “But there is more at play here than you understand. So I must ask you to… restrain yourself. Nicky has made his choice. Do we understand each other?”</p>
<p>A million foolish arguments are clawing up his throat– <em> if he chose once he can choose again, money can’t possibly bind a man’s heart, I love him, I love him I love him I love him</em>– but Yusuf swallows them down. “Yes, I understand.”</p>
<p>Copley smiles, lips thin and eyes hard. “Good.”</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Nicolo is royally, truly, wholly-and-completely fucked.</p>
<p>He barely hears the light conversation of the other dancers over the rabbiting thrum of his own heartbeat. What was Copley saying to Yusuf? Is he okay? And was he surprised to see Nicolo like this? He glances down at himself, clad only in a pair of plain brown trousers and a white undershirt, and a tightness spikes in his stomach. Not such a sparkling diamond, in the light of day.</p>
<p>But, he reasons, Yusuf didn’t seem upset. He seemed… entranced. Nicolo has been reading men for years, and there could be no mistaking Yusuf’s wide, glimmering eyes. His perfectly plush lips dropped open in the most endearing little ‘o’. He was surprised, but far from disappointed.</p>
<p>And that’s the problem. He should have been disappointed. He should have realized that whatever fantasy Nicolo had accidentally constructed for him last night has vanished, like dawn dewdrops cleared by the scorching midday sun. This is the truth of it: Nicolo in a worn, sweat-stained shirt. Last night was a very beautiful dream, but it wasn’t real.</p>
<p>He thinks back to the lines Yusuf had recited. <em> I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.</em> It cannot be real, because if Yusuf asked, Nicolo thinks he would not say no.</p>
<p>The thought alone threatens to send him spiraling, so Nicolo takes a breath, straightens his spine, and sets off in search of Jean. The best strategy, he knows, is to put useless thoughts out of his mind and focus on the job. Maybe, if he can just get through next season, he’ll have made enough of a name for himself to join a real company, with real actors. The nervous sparks in his belly flicker and settle into steely resolve. He sets his jaw. He will not be distracted by this… this <em> crush </em>. Beautiful men have never led him astray before, and he will not allow it now. Not when he’s so close to independence, and his own apartment, and a starring role at the Théâtre du Châtelet.</p>
<p>Of course, none of that will happen with an unsightly tear in his stockings.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Nile comes to his room that evening. Her steady footsteps and the three light raps at the door are her trademark giveaway.</p>
<p>“Come in,” Nicolo calls over his shoulder, gaze fixed on his own reflection in the vanity. He purses his lips, considers himself, and then wrinkles his nose and reaches for a handkerchief.</p>
<p>“I come bearing gifts,” she says as she enters. Nicolo watches in the mirror as she sets a box on the ground and flings herself down onto his chaise. “<em>Christ</em>, if only God had granted me thighs like yours, and then I could be living the cushy life, too. Madame Kozak made us run that spin a hundred times, the one with the arabesque at the end. My back is killing me.”</p>
<p>Nicolo hums. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he says mildly. He reaches for a different shade of gloss and smirks, making eye contact with her reflection. “Though I heard about that gentleman who’s been asking after you for three nights, now. Perhaps a little less work on your back would soothe the pain?”</p>
<p>Nile’s lips split into a grin and she laughs, loud and bright. Nicolo can’t help but chuckle himself. “You’re one to talk!” She insists. “<em> I </em> heard about the calamity last night. Two men– a duke <em> and </em> a Bohemian? Really, Nicky…”</p>
<p>“It was a simple mistake. I didn’t do anything with Yusuf–”</p>
<p>“<em>Yusuf </em>?” She raises a brow at him and he pauses, realizing his mistake. Nile sits up. “The Bohemian, I’m guessing. They’re saying he was rather handsome.”</p>
<p>He scoffs. “You know those starving artist types. They’re all handsome, and,” he adds quickly as she opens her mouth to interject, “all bad news. He’ll be gone by autumn.”</p>
<p>“But the duke will stick around?”</p>
<p>He frowns, first at his own image, and then at her. “If we’re lucky, yes.” Hurriedly he reaches for another handkerchief and swipes at his lips once more.</p>
<p>Nile rises from the chaise and crosses to stand beside him. Her round face juts into view and he sighs, leaning back to give her space. “I can’t find the right shade,” he admits.</p>
<p>She nods. “I know. Let me do it.” She pulls the handkerchief from his grip and dabs his mouth herself. Nicolo admires her as she works, the focused curve of her lower lip, the sweet apple of her cheeks. She has a kind of compassionate strength, one that is evident in her every expression, even after all these years.</p>
<p>At last she steps back, studies him, and smiles. “Well, what do you think?”</p>
<p>He turns back to the mirror and takes in his own reflection: Short hair styled into a fashionable but roguish texture. Eyes lined with black and cheeks stained ruddy. And on his lips, the perfect shade of cherry red. “Magnifico.” He cannot help but praise her. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“If you were really grateful, you’d let me spend the night up here on that luxury mattress.” She laughs, turning back to scoop up the gift she’d set down.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid that would make the duke quite jealous.” He means for it to sound like a joke, but his voice doesn’t land quite right. The room feels too quiet.</p>
<p>Nile stills, her hands cupped around the box. “So, it’s true? He owns you now?”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t <em> own </em> me–”</p>
<p>“Nicky, come on. We’ve never let guests make requests like that. I can’t imagine what he offered Copley. Did you really agree to give him exclusivity?” Her eyes are so open, tone so imploring. Nicolo could never lie to her.</p>
<p>“It’s just until we perform the play,” he says to the ground. He cannot bear how close her gaze looks to pity. “He’s not only funding the production. It’s complicated.”</p>
<p>Neither of them say anything for a bit. Eventually he sniffs and turns toward the vanity, and Nile seems to take that as her cue to change the subject.</p>
<p>“Well,” she says with a lighter tone, “whatever he sent you, it feels expensive.” She places a flat black box in front of him. It’s wrapped in a shimmering golden ribbon. “And Copley wanted me to give you this. I think it’s about your physical.” She also sets down an unmarked envelope.</p>
<p>He sets the letter aside and opens the box without ceremony, as if it were a chore. It certainly feels like one. Inside is a gaudy diamond necklace made of stones the size of his fingertips, with one large teardrop pendant dangling in the center. There’s no note, to his relief.</p>
<p>Nicolo moves to put the top back on, but Nile stops him with a brush of her hand. “I... think he means for you to wear it, tonight,” she says hesitantly.</p>
<p>He represses the immediate urge to shiver and paints on a smile. “Of course. Would you, ah,” he says, handing her the necklace.</p>
<p>As she fastens it around his neck, he strokes a hand over it absently and examines his smile. It’s perfect, as always.</p>
<p>“You ready?” Nile squeezes his shoulders and heads for the door. “We open in fifteen.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be down in a minute,” he replies. She pauses in the doorway, like she might add something, but then turns and disappears from view.</p>
<p>Nicolo looks back at his smile, just for a moment. Too perfect.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry it's been a while! Some crazy coincidences have gone down but I'll write about it in future chapters so nothing is spoiled. Also thank you all for your lovely comments! I really might have given up on this project if not for all your kind words and encouragement, much love to anyone who's reading this &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the skin of their teeth, the troupe manages to finish the new script in time. Booker volunteers to deliver it to the club– he blushes as he offers, and Yusuf suspects an ulterior motive– but he lets him go because…</p>
<p>Because Copley was right. Everyone has made their choices, even Yusuf himself, and now it’s time to honor those decisions. Romance is no excuse to put Nicky in an uncomfortable situation. If he’d been interested in Yusuf, he would have made it known– or, at the very least, not bound himself to the duke.</p>
<p>Now, all Yusuf can do is avoid Nicky for his own heart’s sake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>By Monday, that plan is moot.</p>
<p>Quynh, in typical form, is in full morning glow before the sun has even finished rising. She brews them all a cheap, poor excuse for coffee and cheerfully doles out mugs as they each file into the main room.</p>
<p>“Andromache.” Booker’s voice is still hoarse from sleep. “Please tell your wife that it’s too damn early to smile.”</p>
<p>“Andromache,” chirps Quyhn, “please inform Booker that just because he is a grouchy drunk does not mean the rest of us must suffer.”</p>
<p>“You’re only being smug because you figured out that last harmony,” says Yusuf, reaching past Quynh where she’s perched on the counter for the sugar. He spoons a hefty sum into his coffee.</p>
<p>“And look what thanks I get for it!” Quynh huffs. Andy smacks her calf lightly.</p>
<p>“I, for one,” she says as she accepts a mug from Quynh, “look forward to Yusuf’s play making us all rich enough to afford our own apartments.” Andy raises her mug as if to toast. “To privacy, and quiet mornings!”</p>
<p>They all cheer and clink their mugs. Yusuf catches a snippet of Quynh’s whispered addition to Andy— something about how they might put a quiet morning to use— that makes him offer a solemn <em> santé </em> and a silent prayer that privacy is in their future.</p>
<p>Despite their grumbling, Quynh’s early rising does do them some good. Less than an hour later they are striding into the Moulin Rouge for the first day of preparation.</p>
<p>The entire building is bustling, almost as awe-inspiring as an actual show. Dancers practice footwork in one corner, while others rehearse soliloquies or heft pieces of the set around the stage. Andy, Quynh, and Booker all head toward the wings, but Yusuf pauses for a moment to take it all in– the dance instructor snapping her fingers to a rhythm and calling out directions, the sharp clanging of a hammer hitting a nail, the warbling tones of brass instruments running through the same lines of music again and again. All of it, all of these people, just to breathe life into his writing. </p>
<p>A man hanging from a scaffolded structure flags him down, and Yusuf hurries over. “Can you paint?” He asks, looking past Yusuf to whistle at a group of men carrying a large wooden crate. “Ah, <em> connard</em>, that goes in the left wing! What are you doing?”</p>
<p>Yusuf nods, though the man is hardly paying him any mind. “Yes, but I’m actually–”</p>
<p>“Good.” The man snaps and points to a large wooden panel shaped into an arch. “That’s the backdrop. Nighttime garden. If you need more colors ask Jean.”</p>
<p>“Who’s…?” Yusuf begins to ask, but the man has already dropped down from the scaffold to approach a new group of men, yelling something about a different scene. Without much else to do, and clearly not wanting to anger this man, he sets his notes on the ground, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.</p>
<p>Poetry is his strong suit, but Yusuf is a true Bohemian. No artistic venture is beyond his grasp, with enough effort. He spends just over an hour covering the panel in shades of black and navy blue speckled with stars and contrasted by a golden archway at the edges. Vibrant flowers creep along the arch, winding and twisting to its curved peak. Overall, he thinks, it’s at least passable.</p>
<p>“That’s beautiful,” comes a voice from behind. He turns and, to his embarrassment, startles.</p>
<p>There’s Nicky, of course, because where else could he be but at Yusuf’s side? It is the worst delight, the best pain, to have him close and feel so far away.</p>
<p>“Oh, hello,” he says, trying desperately to sound casual.</p>
<p>“Hello.” Nicky doesn’t smile, but there’s a warmth to his expression that sets Yusuf at ease. He nods at the wooden backdrop. “I thought you were a writer.”</p>
<p>“I am.” Yusuf rubs at the back of his neck. “Or, you know. That’s the dream. This was just to help out.”</p>
<p>Nicky nods again, gaze fixed on the arch. “That’s kind of you,” he says, low, almost to himself. He leans forward to inspect the paint more carefully, and Yusuf rocks back and forth on his heels. The coil of rope laying discarded beside them suddenly seems very interesting, certainly more interesting than the broad span of Nicky’s shoulders, the way his cotton shirt is snug enough to stretch over lean back muscles. Yes, much more interesting than how his high-waisted trousers frame what must be God-given thighs. </p>
<p>“These flowers,” says Nicky, straightening, “I don’t recognize them. Did you just make them up?”</p>
<p>Yusuf grins. He hadn’t thought anyone would notice. “No, actually. They’re from a story my mother used to tell me, from her home. I think I asked too many questions,” he adds, bashful. “She would keep my attention by describing the world in great detail.”</p>
<p>“Lovely,” Nicky says, though he doesn’t look back at the flowers. Yusuf wills himself to use this pause as an excuse to leave, to go find the troupe, to do anything other than stand here staring into Nicky’s perfect, perfect eyes. </p>
<p>“The story was about two muses,” he says instead, the words pouring from his chest, like comets on an immutable collision course. “Good Luck and Bad Luck. They took turns twisting an innocent lumberjack’s fate, bringing him fortune and misery, until one day Bad Luck finally grew tired of the competition and quit. Good Luck remained, and fell in love with the lumberjack’s son.”</p>
<p>Yusuf fears he’s rambling, but Nicky must be a skilled actor. His eyes are wide with rapt attention. “And,” Nicky prompts when he finishes speaking, “did they have a happy ending, in love?”</p>
<p>“We don’t know,” Yusuf murmurs. Nicky leans ever-so-slightly closer, an imperceptible movement, but Yusuf swears he can feel the heat from his skin. “The story ends too soon.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Nicky blinks, and just like that, the heat is gone. It’s nothing visible. Yusuf isn’t even sure it’s anything real, that he isn’t just imagining this feeling. But there’s a weight between them now, an emptiness where only a moment ago he had felt so full. He wants to pull Nicky back, grasp at him like a man drowning, like Nicky is the rope flung to save him. Poetry perches on the tip of his tongue, and it aches when he swallows it down. <em> I die of love for you</em>, he thinks, but does not say, <em> all I want is to sing your praises</em>.</p>
<p>But that’s not what Nicky wants, and the thought is enough to make Yusuf clear his throat and turn away. </p>
<p>“I should, uh,” he says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. </p>
<p>Nicky blinks again, and then nods. “Oh, yes, of course.” </p>
<p>Neither of them move.</p>
<p>Yusuf sucks in a breath.  “Well, I’ll see you–”</p>
<p>“–at rehearsals!” Nicky finishes for him.</p>
<p>That’s… not what Yusuf expected. Copley hadn’t said anything about Yusuf leading rehearsals-- that was mainly Andy’s role. He had discovered that while she was a little stiff and unfeeling as an actress, she made for an astounding director. Something about her commanding nature, or the ability to kill with a single look, surely.</p>
<p>“Yes, rehearsals,” Nicky says. His neck is flushed. “Since I’m playing the lead role. You can help me, you know, capture the emotion. As the writer.”</p>
<p>Yusuf does what must be a very poor job trying to hide his smile. “Yes, of course. That makes sense. Should we begin now?”</p>
<p>“I’m busy now, I’m afraid. Errands to run.” Nicky breaks eye contact, studying the ground beside Yusuf’s shoes. “But perhaps you could return tonight?”</p>
<p>Yusuf’s heart stutters. He shouldn’t, he knows that, he absolutely shouldn’t. And it would be so easy to refuse, to make some excuse about the troupe or his contract with Copley. Being alone with Nicky, in his private room, “capturing emotion”? He could never hurt Nicky, of course, but protecting himself from heartbreak would be… well, impossible. </p>
<p>Then again, Copley had said their relationship was to be strictly professional. What could be more professional than this, than a writer and an actor, rehearsing their production? And, true, perhaps Nicky is only mentioning rehearsals because it’s expected of him. But he’s also clever, and sharp, and Yusuf believes if he really didn’t want to meet then he would have found a way out. If Nicky has asked, how can Yusuf refuse?</p>
<p>“Yes.” He hopes, in the fragment of his brain that’s still functioning, that he doesn’t sound too breathless. “I’ll be there.”</p>
<p>
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<p>---</p>
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<p>Though it pains him to lie to Yusuf, Nicolo is determined to keep the truth of his “errands” hidden. The thought of Yusuf discovering that he’s going on an outing with the duke makes Nicolo’s stomach roil– a reaction he refuses to investigate too deeply.</p>
<p>Instead, he focuses on the odd feeling of his formal outfit. Merrick had requested that he dress “presentable for society”, which was, frankly, baffling. Nicolo pieced together what he could: a trim vest over a white collared shirt, his nicest pair of trousers, an aging Homburg hat, and a jacket lent by a dancer of similar size. He hopes Merrick will not be too disappointed, for his own sake more than anything else.</p>
<p>Nile had teased him– “when you get too posh for us low-folk, I’m taking your room”– but Nicolo knew she was just as confused as him. Exclusivity was unusual, but actual courting? In the presence of ‘society’? Whatever Merrick wants, it’s more encompassing than Nicolo had accounted for.</p>
<p>In some ways, it feels familiar to walk the cobblestoned streets like a shadow of himself. He dons a different but equally extravagant costume every night, disguises himself to fit the whims and fancies of the patrons with particularly deep pockets. And he doesn’t mind. He even likes it. It’s fun, to dress up, to feel glamorous and adored. Fun to play a character. <em> The sparkling diamond. </em>The object of everyone’s desire.</p>
<p>But when the morning comes, he is always free to shed that role and return to simple reality. He is a different creature in the daylight. </p>
<p>Perhaps that’s why, familiar as it feels to arrange his face in a pleasant smile and greet the duke with a kiss on the cheek, it is also wholly foreign. </p>
<p>Merrick is waiting for him at the Jardin des Tuileries, dressed in an expensive-looking coat and derby hat. Nicolo cannot imagine what the duke is hoping for, but whatever it is, it feels dangerous.</p>
<p>“Your grace,” he says, letting his tone tip up toward reverent and slightly naïve. It must be the right choice, because Merrick grins like a predator spotting its prey.</p>
<p>“Nicky.” The duke offers an elbow and Nicolo accepts it, placing his fingers in the crook of Merrick’s arm, ever grateful. “I’m so glad you could join me today. I’m very much looking forward to us getting to know each other.”</p>
<p>“As am I.” Nicolo pauses, considers the best phrasing that will get him the honest answer he wants without revealing himself to be suspicious. “Though, if you’ll pardon my curiosity, I wonder why you chose these gardens?”</p>
<p>Merrick laughs. “Because I thought you would appreciate the flowers, my dear. Almost as pretty as you.”</p>
<p>Nicolo ducks his chin, as though trying to hide a blush. “But, aren’t you concerned about the scandal it might cause? I’m not exactly high society–”</p>
<p>“And I am unaccustomed to getting anything other than what I want.” Merrick places a hand over Nicolo’s and squeezes, just this side of too tight. “Who you were before, high society or no, means nothing to me. You’re mine now. That’s what matters.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Nicolo says with a placating smile. They walk on, arm in arm, the duke chattering about the fine weather and other useless pleasantries. He doesn’t ask Nicolo for his opinion, evidently content to see him nodding along, and it is a small mercy.</p>
<p>He feels wildly out of his depth, here, unsure exactly what show to put on except for deference and submission. Nicolo is accustomed to playing the sparkling diamond, it’s true, but he wonders if he must adopt this new version of himself as a second character. Now, he’s Merrick’s… what? Not lover, or partner. Not courtesan. Not even whore. </p>
<p>Maybe just that. Just Merrick’s.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bit of a filler chapter, but it's setting us up for some bigger plot points, I promise!</p>
<p>Just two things to note: The story Yusuf tells is an actual Tunisian folktale (at least, according to a kind of sketchy-looking website I found), and the poetry he recites in his mind is taken from Abu Nuwas's "Love in Bloom". The original line is "I die of love for him, perfect in every way", but you should go read the entire poem because it's so lovely!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you liked this please please leave a comment and let me know! I feel like I'm the only person in the world who wants this fic-- I have a target audience and it's me.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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